lifted his gaze to scan their surroundings. About them, the silence of woods and fields lay unbroken by human discord. No smoke rose above the trees to give hint of a nearby cottage. Memory suggested they were still some miles from the London road.
With a groan, Martin shortened the reins. ‘I’ll have to get down and find some stones. Can you hold them, do you think?’
A mischievous grin lit Helen’s face. ‘I was under the impression that no out-and-outer would ever entrust his cattle to a mere woman.’
Martin grimaced. ‘Touché. I wouldn’t—except that I wouldn’t give a farthing for their behaviour if I simply tied the reins to the rail. The devils would sense the absence of a master and they’d be off as soon as the stones were in place.’ He glanced down into the large green eyes. ‘All they need is a light touch on the reins for reassurance—and you seem to know your way about horses.’
Helen reached for the reins. ‘I do. But if you spook them by throwing stones, I’ll drive off and leave you to your fate. So be warned!’
Martin laughed at her melodramatic tone and relinquished the reins. He stood carefully and removed his coat, placing it over the seat before jumping down from the carriage. The water covered his ankles. With an inward sigh for his gleaming Hessians, he splashed to the bank and cast about for stones to place beneath and before the wheels.
Helen watched, the reins held gently in both hands. Every now and then, she felt a tug as the horses lived up to their owner’s expectations and tested their freedom. They were clearly unhappy to be standing stock-still, half in and half out of the stream, rather than stretching their legs along the highway. As the minutes ticked by, Helen became infected with their impatience. Martin had to go further and further afield to find stones to lay in the mud before the wheels. She had no idea of the time, but thought it close to noon. How far were they from London?
Then her reckless self emerged and shouldered aside her worries. This was adventure and in adventure important things took care of themselves. Things would turn out all right; she need not concern herself—fate was in charge.
Determinedly light-hearted, she started to hum, then, as Martin had disappeared upstream, lifted her voice in the refrain from an old country air.
Martin heard the lilting melody as he returned with yet more rocks. He paused for a moment, out of sight, and let her gentle contralto wash over him, waves of song lapping his consciousness. The sound was close to a caress. With a chuckle, Martin moved forward. A siren’s song, no less.
She checked when she saw him, but when he raised one brow in question she raised one back and, tilting her chin, resumed her song.
With a broad smile, Martin settled the stones he carried to best effect and headed back for more. In truth, he found fair Juno’s fortitude somewhat remarkable, he who would have sworn he knew all there was to know of women. But this woman had not whined at the delay, nor raised peevish quibbles about the consequences. Consequences neither he nor she could do anything to avoid. Had she realised yet?
An interesting question. Yet, he reflected, fair Juno was no one’s fool.
Three more trips and there were enough rocks to attempt to break free of the cloying mud. Hands on hips, Martin stood by the side of the carriage and looked up at his assistant. ‘I’ll have to push the carriage from behind. Do you think you can hold them, once they gain the bank?’
A look of supercilious condescension was bestowed upon him. ‘Of course,’ Helen said, then deserted the high ground to ask, ‘Do you think they’ll bolt?’
With a half-smile, Martin shook his head. ‘Not if you keep the reins short.’ He moved to the back of the curricle, praying that that was so. ‘When I say so, give ’em the office.’
On her mettle, Helen obediently waited for his call before clicking the reins. The horses heaved, the curricle slowly edged forward. Then the wheels gained firm purchase and the carriage abruptly left the water. The horses pulled hard. Suppressing her sudden fear, stirred to life by the strength of the great beasts sensed through the reins, she determinedly hauled back, struggling to hold them. She applied the brake to lock the wheels, and the carriage skidded slightly.
Then Martin was beside her, taking the reins from her suddenly weak fingers.
‘Good girl!’
The approval in his voice warmed her; the glow in his eyes raised her temperature even more. To her annoyance, Helen felt herself blushing. An odd sensation of weakness, not quite faintness but surely an allied affliction, bloomed within. She shifted along the seat, making room for him, supremely conscious of the large body when it settled once more by her side.
To her relief, Martin seemed content to resume their journey without further delay, leaving her to the task of shackling her wayward thoughts. Never before had they been so astray. And, if she was any judge at all of the matter, Martin Willesden was the type of man who could sense a wayward feminine thought at ten paces. Her present safety might be ensured, but she did not need to lay snares for her future.
Having learned his lesson somewhat belatedly, Martin devoted as much of his attention as he could summon to driving. The London road was gained without further mishap. Soon, they were bowling along at a spanking pace. Even so, it was past two o’clock when, accepting the inevitable, Martin checked and turned into the yard of the Frog and Duck at Wincanton.
He turned to smile into Juno’s questioning eyes. ‘Lunch. I’m famished, even if, being a fashionable woman, you are not.’
Helen’s eyes widened slightly. ‘I’m not that fashionable.’
Martin laughed and jumped down. He reached up to lift fair Juno to the ground, noting her slight hesitation before, without fuss, she drew nearer and let him grasp her waist.
Flustered again but determined not to show it, Helen accepted Martin’s proffered arm. He led her up the steps to the inn door, then stood aside to allow her to enter. As she did so, the head groom, having laid eyes on the horses his ostlers had taken in charge, came hurrying to ask Martin’s orders.
Alone, Helen crossed the threshold, thankful for the cool dimness within. She was feeling unduly warm. The door gave directly on to the taproom, a large chamber, low-ceilinged and cosy with a huge fireplace at one end. Alerted by the noise outside, the landlord was coming forward from his domain on the other side of the room. Seeing her, he stopped. And stared. Helen became aware that all the other occupants of the tap, six in all and all male, were likewise transfixed. Then, to her discomfort, a leering grin suffused the landlord’s face. Faint echoes appeared on his patrons’ faces, too.
Simultaneously realising what a sight she must present, and the likely conclusion the landlord had drawn, Helen drew herself up, ready to defend her status.
There was no need. Martin came through the door and stopped by her side. One comprehensive glance was all it took for him to grasp the conclusion the inhabitants of the Frog and Duck had jumped to. He scowled at the landlord. ‘A private parlour, host, where my wife can be at ease.’
The growled command wiped the leer from the landlord’s face so fast, he had no expression ready to cover the ensuing blankness.
Helen was not sure whether to laugh or gasp. Wife? In the end, she covered her left hand with her right and, tipping up her chin, looked down her nose at the landlord, a feat assisted by the fact that she was taller than he. The man shrank as obsequiousness took hold.
‘Yes,
